Easy, Bloody Easy
by GhostOfBambi
Summary: Oneshot. Answer to the prompt: Head Boy James is trying to keep his cool because some Slytherins are causing trouble and he doesn't want to hex them but Lily sails in to the rescue.


**Author's Note:** This was meant to be a drabble but you all know what little control I have. Fair warning: There's quite a bit of bad language.

 **Easy, Bloody Easy**

He's sitting with his team when the Slytherins come to take their shot.

It's unsurprising, because they're a bunch of cowards – Avery, Mulciber and Snape – who wouldn't dare approach if he was sitting with his mates, but he and the team always have an early breakfast on the morning of a match, and talented as they are on a Quidditch pitch, most of them couldn't touch on his prowess with a wand, nor that of two out of three of his friends.

James is used to their little game by now. Rosier got him worked up before a match once, back in fifth, and the punch James landed on his stinking nose earned him a one-match ban. Since then, they've been working that angle before every Gryffindor meet, crowding around him in the Great Hall while he tries to enjoy his bacon sandwich. Today, they're playing Slytherin, so he's expecting them to go harder than normal. His team are on top form, particularly Mary Macdonald, a genius Beater who needs very little coaching, but he, James, is their captain, their star player - that's a fact, not a product of his admittedly large ego - and he's not going to bend to their will.

It would have worked, years ago, but James is seventeen, far less rash than his younger self, and Head Boy besides. He's too old and too smart to rise to a little baiting.

Besides, there's Lily Evans, whose dark red hair is visible a little further down the bench, Macdonald's match-day support as usual. She's his co-Head, and his friend, and the object of his - sadly unrequited - affections, and she'd be disappointed - not mad, but disappointed - if he lost his temper and put his Headship at risk. She's been awfully sweet to him lately, Evans has, joking with him in the common room and walking with him to class, and he'd sooner pop out an eyeball than disappoint her.

He thinks, because he's never been very subtle, that she probably knows why that is, and that makes him squirm in discomfort sometimes, but he can't help that she's magnificent, and he had sense enough to notice.

They go for the team first, commenting loudly on their apparent lack of talent, but that's child's play, and false besides, and James fully expects them to run out of steam - which they do - and start lampooning his friends - which they also do. Bingo. He's right again. They cycle through the usual tired insults, ramping it up only when it becomes clear that James has no intention of twitching a hair in their direction.

"Lupin's not looking too well, Potter," says Snape, hatred evident in his slimy voice. "Have you been practicing hexes again?"

He always likes to go for Remus. Merlin only knows why, when Moony has never done a thing to hurt him.

"They practice on Pettigrew," puts in Mulciber. "Their faithful little manservant."

"How _is_ Pettigrew, anyway? Sucking you all off still?" Classic Avery. He always strays the closest to the truly puerile. James has heard it all before, though it hurts Peter, so he's glad his mates aren't there.

He would have expected three of-age wizards, one of whom is a prefect, to come up with something more sophisticated than a gay joke, but he supposes their shared mental capacity is a bit limited.

"Speaking of, I heard Black got blasted off the family tree for being a bum-bandit," says Mulciber. "Isn't he living with you, Potter?"

"Yeah," says Snape. "He is. His own family didn't want him."

"What's he doing at your house?" Avery chimes in. "Does he see to your mother's needs, now that dear old daddy's in the ground?"

A visible tension settles over the table, and James feels his first real stab of anger.

But he's not going to - he _can't_ \- rise to it. Headship. Quidditch. Lily. And his dad... his dad would be prouder of him if he didn't give in, so he twists his torso and smiles genially up at Avery's ugly, rabbit-featured face.

"Why?" he says. "Is _your_ mum looking to have her pipes cleaned out? Your dad's on, what, his fourth wife now?"

"At least my father's alive."

James shrugs, and swallows the hex he'd dearly love to utter. "At least my father loved me."

"Watch your mouth, your four-eyed git."

"Watch your dad, Avery," he sweetly responds. He's doing a bang-up job of hiding his anger, because he _is_ angry. They went for his father, and that's not fucking okay. "Except, wait, you can't, because he walked out on you."

Avery's face contorts into an ugly scowl. He has always been quick to anger. "Is that what you tell yourself when Black is fucking your moth—"

"Would you lot ever shut up?!" Mary snaps. "Even you must realise that it's getting tired."

Avery glances over at Mary, his face curling into an evil grin. "Want to start something, Macdonald?"

Mary makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat and James turns back around to his food. She's more than capable of handling Avery's backtalk, and he's more than done with listening to it.

"Hey, look, it's Evans," says Avery suddenly. "Alright, gorgeous?"

A drum pulses hard in James's neck.

"You know what, Evans?" Avery continues, loud enough for Lily to hear, but not enough for the teachers to hear from the head table, as casual as if he's preparing a throwaway comment on the weather. "I know you're a filthy Mudblood, but I've always quite fancied you."

The pulse throbs harder.

Not her.

 _Anything_ but her.

He glances sideways to where she's sitting, three people down, and catches her rolling her eyes at Mary. She never deigns to reply to their taunting, possessing an impressive amount of self-control. She's fine, he thinks, or hopes, which is bloody fantastic because he isn't, and if Avery utters one more word about her - a girl James genuinely thinks he'd take a Cruciatus curse for - somebody's going to have to hold him back.

"Let's face it, you've got cracking tits." James can hear the amusement, nay, the victory in his voice. "I'd give you one."

"So would Snape here," Mulciber chimes in, with a jocular grunt.

Those bastards. Those evil fucking bastards. He reminds himself, though it hardly means a thing anymore, that they're not worth losing his Headship, or getting banned from Quidditch, but his face feels like it's burning, and he's squeezing his fork so hard, it'll imprint on his palm.

"Potter wants to shag her too, don't you, Potter?" Avery claps him hard on the back. "'Course, she won't have you, will she? Maybe she'd prefer a real man. _Maybe,"_ he says, and his voice drops an octave, and he places a hand on the edge of the table, leaning down to grin at James over his shoulder. "When the _right_ people are in charge, if the Dark Lord's feeling generous, he'll let me keep her for a while before he finishes her off, I'd like to play with her a bit—"

"That's _it!"_ James hears himself snarl, his hand slamming down on the table, palm stinging as it slaps against the wood, and he's on his feet like lightning, wand out, stepping over the bench like it doesn't even exist because nothing's a problem for him, he's better and quicker than the lot of them. Avery backs away immediately and almost collides with Snape, grinning widely, his hands raised as if in surrender, and Mulciber quips that they'll let James watch, and James doesn't _care_ – hang being Head Boy, hang the bloody match, and see if he gives a shit, he's going to hex them all to bloody pieces, until there's nothing left of them, until they're tiny, crawling, writhing in pain—

"Oi, Potter!"

James has barely opened his mouth to send Avery into a painful dimension of pus-filled boils, and Lily is there, standing between him and the Slytherin scum, having called his name as brightly as if nothing untoward is happening, but with a warning look in her bright, emerald eyes that he recognises well from years of experience.

She must have gotten up before he did, he thinks, as she holds a placating hand up in the direction of the head table – he glances briefly in that direction and sees that McGonagall has risen to her feet, evidently preparing to rush down and dissolve the fray, and likely throw them all in detention – then smiles at James, cool as a cucumber, and says, "Hey."

Avery and Mulciber start laughing behind her, but she pays them as little mind as if they didn't exist. James, though, is far too incensed to put his wand away and sit back down like a good boy. It's bad enough that they went for his mates, even worse that they brought up his dad, but she is the last straw, because he loves her, he fucking _loves_ her and he _knows_ that she heard what they said and she should understand, she should get that they've pushed him to his limit.

"Get out of my way, Evans," he tells her tightly.

Lily shakes her head. "Can't."

"I'm serious, they don't deserve your bloody protection!"

"Oh, I know," she calmly agrees, and cocks her head to the side. "But I still don't think I can do that."

A great big surge of irritation courses through him, and he doesn't want to take it out on Lily – he's trying to defend her bleeding honour, after all, even if he is doomed to worship her from afar with his stupid, wasted heart forever – but he can't help the way it leaks into his voice. "Did you _hear_ the way they were talking about you?!"

"Of course I did, I was right over there."

"And you're not—"

"Can we discuss that later? I've got something I needed to give to you."

"What?!" he yelps. "You _can't_ just let them get away with—"

"It's for the match," she says, and takes a step towards him. "For good luck. For later."

He splutters something incoherent, because Evans is nuts, and now isn't the time to interrupt him with inane good luck charms - he's not even superstitious - but she keeps on walking, then his face is clasped between her hands, and she pushes herself to her toes, lashes fluttering as her eyelids drop, and she presses her mouth to his.

Her hands wind into his hair and she tugs, hard, pressing herself against him, and his legs collide with the bench and he hears a clatter, but he steadies them both, his hands jumping to find her waist - he must have dropped his wand - and holding her there, fingers digging into flesh while her tongue swirls fireworks behind his eyes. Somehow, he's kissing her. She's kissing him, with a starved, heady kind of passion, like she needs him or she'll die. _They're_ kissing, and he thinks he was mad about something, but his anger melts to a rhythm that pounds insistent against her lips, and she meets him beat for beat, and there's an almighty murmur rising up around them.

Then she pulls away, and someone - Snape, he thinks - has let out a strangled cry, and she's taken the fight from his blood with those magical, poison lips of hers.

Avery and Mulciber aren't laughing any more.

"God, Potter," she says, smiling up at him in a way that shouldn't be legal for the sake of his sanity, utterly filthy, gloriously debauched. Her arms are still around his neck, and Merlin, he wants to kiss her again more than he's ever wanted anything. "Knock my bloody socks off, why don't you?"

Snape is probably sinking into a dead faint over her shoulder, which is a marvellous bloody thought, but James can't move his eyes away from her flushed, beautiful face. "What the—"

"I know you were all set to get yourself banned from playing today," she says, her tone teasing. "And I do appreciate the chivalry, but I'd really like you to kick their arses at the match instead, if you think you're up for it."

He nods, and his head feels waterlogged. "More than up for it."

"That's good, because I - actually, hang on," she says, and twists away from him, turning to face the shell-shocked gang of Slytherins. "Do you mind buggering off, please? Potter and I are trying to have a moment."

Perhaps they've sensed that Snape - who has never looked whiter or more queasy in his life - needs to be brought to a quiet place to weep, or perhaps it's impossible to taunt a man when the fittest girl on earth just snogged him in front of entire school and at least half the staff, but they all skulk off, and Lily does a neat little twirl to face James again.

"As I was saying," she began. "Since you're promising me a win for our house, I'll just—"

"Maybe," he interrupts, his hand darting out and closing around her wrist, and he pulls her back to him, a little rougher than he intended, but the smile it elicits makes his lips tingle in anticipation, and he grins at her, and the world is a joyous place again. "What was that for?"

"What was what for?"

"Snogging me in front of the school?" he reminds her, rumpling up his hair, though she did a pretty fantastic job of that herself. "Not very you, Evans."

"Much more you, I know," she agrees, with a dainty shrug. "But Avery said I wouldn't have you, and you _know_ how much I hate it when people state things incorrectly."

His heart is doing cartwheels down a marble hall of sunbursts and expensive paintings. "So you'll have no problem kissing me again?"

"Well, I don't just give it away for free, James. I mean, I had to prove a point with that one, but you'll have to date me if you want another."

"That's non-negotiable, is it?"

"'Fraid so," she sighs. "We can start after the match, once you've won. I assume you know a way to sneak us both to Hogsmeade?"

"Thought you were Head Girl, Evans?"

"And I thought you were James Potter," she retorts. "And it's Lily, thanks. I won't have any boyfriend of mine calling me by my surname like I'm his bleeding mate."

 _Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Bliss._

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he says, and pouts, a pale imitation of contrition that makes her laugh. "Lily."

"So you should be."

"How about I take you out later and make it up to you?"

"I'd love to," she agrees, and kisses him again, soft and swiftly stolen from his lips. "But match first, yeah? I'll need to go now if I want a seat at the front of the stands."

"Gonna cheer me on, are you?"

"I'd suggest," she says, and pats him on the cheek, and steps out of his embrace, so he's sadly bereft of her warmth. "That you get used to hearing me scream your name."

Then she turns, and glides away to get her things, linking arms with a very giggly Mary, leaving his heart on fire, and James is pretty sure that he's transcended the mortal plane.

They win their match. 220 - 10. Bloody easy victory.


End file.
